When the Dancing Stopped
by Qalam
Summary: Set after 'The Dancing Men.' Watson endeavours to damage-control once Holmes finally has time to reflect on his client's death, and his own perceived failure. Gen, Watson's POV.


**Set after the conclusion of 'The Dancing Men.' Based on both the original story and the Granada adaptation.**

* * *

The look that Holmes allowed into his eyes in the cab on the way to Ridling Thorpe Manor was one that I shall not soon forget.

It contained a myriad of emotions, but the one that stood out was guilt. For all that Holmes made every effort to appear emotionally disconnected from the clients he served, he was nonetheless so invested in each of their problems that, whether he acknowledged it or not, a bond fashioned between he and they.

In the case of Mr Hilton Cubitt, it seemed at first that there could be no man who was so actively the opposite of Holmes in every regard. Mr Cubitt was clearly as sentimental and openly loving a man as ever existed – he wore his emotions plainly upon his countenance for all to see.

Yet as our acquaintance wore on, it became clear to see that whatever their outward differences, that English gentleman embodied those very same qualities that Holmes did – loyalty, tenaciousness, honour and a streak of protectiveness over those he held dear.

If I had observed these qualities, then Holmes could not have failed to do the same. Perhaps that added to the sharp pain I saw that day – the fact that he had failed such a man, in his eyes, was something that he would feel deeply.

The ride to the manor was short, and fully occupied in recovering from the shock of the realisation that all our haste had not been haste enough. The capture of Abe Slaney, and piecing together the events that had led to Mr Cubitt's death and to his poor wife's despair enabled Holmes to compartmentalise his own reaction to the crime. But upon its solution, where there was distraction no more, it was clear that he was not taking this lightly.

He retreated into himself on the train back to London. Despite my best efforts to engage him in conversation, he degenerated rapidly within the course of our journey from replying in full sentences, to monosyllables, to not replying at all. I lapsed into silence out of respect for his feelings and he spent the rest of the journey sat bolt upright, staring out of the window.

Several times, I saw his eyelids begin to droop, but each time he forced himself awake, as if enforcing some vigil on himself as penance.

At last we reached home. No refreshment had passed our lips since a hastily snatched cup of tea as we discussed the plan of action to capture Slaney, and so I was fairly ravenous. Holmes, I was certain, had not eaten a full meal since lunch the previous day, so I was determined to at least get some sustenance into him before he lapsed completely into one of his black moods.

I spoke to Mrs Hudson in quiet tones as Holmes disappeared up the stairs, and she hurried off to do the best she could with the short notice I'd given her – there hadn't yet been a time she'd come up short.

When I reached the sitting room door, I was met by the sight of Holmes wrapped up in his robe and slippers, and sat at his desk. A drawer was half open and he was gazing into it.

I knew only too well what that wretched drawer contained. I quashed the indignation that always rose in me when this issue was brought to air and took several steps closer. "Holmes - "

"You needn't worry yourself Watson. I have not earned the reward of sweet oblivion today." These words were spoken in such morose tones that my concern for my dear friend's state of mind only increased.

At that moment, Mrs Hudson arrived with a pot of tea. "Your dinner will be up shortly gentlemen," she announced, setting it down on the side table.

I nodded my thanks, and as she left, took the last few steps to Holmes' side. He remained as he was, and I crouched beside him, placing a tentative hand upon his forearm.

"Holmes," I began, "you could not have known the turn that events would take. There was not a sign until that final message that things were even inclining in the direction of violence."

"And what of Mrs Cubitt's fear Watson? Was that not indication enough, even for one as blind as myself?" The forearm beneath my arm tensed as he clenched his fist. "The talk of going away from the home she loved, her efforts in preventing her husband from pursuing Slaney at their first encounter?" He shook his head sharply. "No Watson, it will not do."

"Then if we are apportioning blame, I too must bear an equal share. And perhaps, even the late Mr Cubitt himself should." Holmes' gaze finally turned upon me at that, startled, and I gripped his forearm tight. "You saw the love he had for his wife Holmes. Do you truly believe that if he had thought her to be in the danger, he would have ever left her side?"

Holmes blinked slowly, and I rose, pushing the drawer closed before I crossed to the side table. I poured out tea for the both of us, and placed his into his hands directly, knowing that it would otherwise sit until stone cold.

He lifted the steaming cup to his lips absently, and I hurried to stay his hand. He glanced at me, brow furrowed, before registering the scalding heat of the liquid. The hint of a smile appeared. "Thank you Watson."

Barely had we finished our tea that Mrs Hudson brought up dinner. I noted gratefully that Holmes actually ingested more than he poked at, and the good landlady and I exchanged relieved glances as she came to collect our dishes.

The evening wore on in mostly companionable silence, as we each settled down to our own pursuits. I refrained from writing up the notes of the case, though it was usually my practice to do so at the earliest opportunity, whilst my memory of them was still fresh – it did not feel appropriate somehow, given the circumstances.

Instead, I settled in my armchair with the book I had been reading, as Holmes sat with legs outstretched on the couch. Spread upon them were the various letters from Mr Cubitt and the enclosed copies of the dancing men.

He spent what seemed an age contemplating them, before gathering them all together and enclosing them between the leaves of his red pocketbook. This he dropped onto the floor beside him, before laying back, hands laced behind his head, a contemplative look on his face as he stared at the ceiling.

I reached a particularly engrossing part of the novel, and it was not until I had completed next few chapters that I glanced Holmes' way again. To my great surprise, and relief, my friend had settled on his side into what seemed to be a tranquil repose.

I rose from my chair to place an afghan over him, and resumed my seat with the idea of finishing the final two chapters before retiring.

It was not to be however, for the next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to a sunlit room and the sound of dishes clattering against one another.

"Rise and shine Watson," came a cheery exclamation as I squinted in the direction of the dining table; there was Holmes, shaking out a napkin to lay in his lap as he smiled at me.

I rose and retreated to make my toilet hastily; Sherlock Holmes rarely showed much of an appetite, but when he did, he could quite easily clear away second and third helpings – those days were Mrs Hudson's favourites. Oh, she would grumble, but I truly believe that as long as Holmes would keep eating, she would keep cooking.

We ate as we discussed topics ranging from apiology to modern technological advances – Holmes could be a scintillating conversationalist when he so chose.

I returned to my book after breakfast, expecting to find it had fallen to the floor during the night. Imagine my surprise then to find it upon the side table, the page where I had been reading thoughtfully marked.

I opened the book and Holmes' handwriting greeted me from the slip of paper acting as a placeholder.

 _My dear Watson,_

 _I appreciate your efforts more than I can adequately convey._

 _Holmes._

The great detective would perhaps hold me in regard as the most sentimental fool if he were to know, but I have treasured that note, and keep it tucked within the pages of an old journal.


End file.
